BREAKING

Travel Adventures

The Endless Highway

Crowheart Part 1

Article And Photos By: Scooter Tramp Scotty

Originally Published In The June 2015 Issue Of Cycle Source Magazine

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vast and desolate land that is often Wyoming spread out across the seemingly endless prairie of small hills, yellow brush, and distant mountains as Laura’s little Sportster followed my old Electra Glide on its westerly journey. This small twolane highway was so lost and so lonely that the cell phones we carried had been reduced to little more than clocks. The hours passed. Ahead a sign announced the town of Crowheart, though I saw only one gas station/convenience store, a metal building beside it, and a little firehouse across the street. That was all. It seemed a wise idea to gas up and we pulled to the pumps. Once inside the store I noted by the rows of P.O. boxes hung on the wall that the post office was an integral part of this little building. A stroll to the soda cooler revealed rows of the huge injection bottles of antibiotics, steroids, or whatever it is that ranchers shoot into their cattle these days. Seemed that this was an “everything” store. For the moment we were the only patrons, after paying the elderly counter man I engaged him in a short conversation. Turned out he’d been working within these walls for over 50 years, and had owned the place for the last 30. I couldn’t imagine.

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After gassing up, we sat out front with soda and coffee to enjoy this welcomed break. When the time had passed I hit the button only to be greeted by a starter that would not crank. Had to be a bad battery, for the dash mounted volt meter had stated clearly that the charging system was working when I’d pulled in. It wasn’t that. The fucking battery was less than a month old. Still, this wouldn’t be the first bad one I’d ever gotten fresh from the box. I strolled back inside to ask our proprietor about options. He said that the metal building next door was an auto shop and that I should try there. The shop was pretty typical. Tools, torches, lifts, and those other things used by the men who work on machines lay scattered everywhere. From his seat beside a semidisassembled lawn mower a young man reached to shake my hand and introduce himself as Jason. I explained the battery predicament and said that the old man next door had sent me. “That’s my grandfather,” Jason explained as he got up to reach for a battery tester then escort me back out to the bike. After I’d yanked the right-side saddlebag, Jason hooked his tester to the battery and, in about a minute, said it tested good. A little low, but definitely not shot, according to his machine anyway. Jason said that he only had a trickle charger but would be glad to put my battery on it, although it’d have to sit overnight. There was no other choice.

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The afternoon had grown late and a storm was brewing over the mountains. Its rain, which appeared to be moving closer, could be seen in the distance. It was Laura who asked if there was anyplace we could spend the night. Jason answered, “Stay in the church,” he pointed to a small building some 1/8th mile down the road. I’d not noticed it before. “They leave the door open in case someone needs to sleep in there. You can leave your bike in the shop if you want.” “No thanks man. The bike’s got my toothbrush and everything else in it. I think we’ll just push it down there.”

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It was with immense tones of gratitude that I pulled the battery and handed it over. Jason said he’d slap it on the charger before heading off to the fire station. The place was undergoing some kind of big cleaning job and he’d be working late over there tonight. After his departure Laura and I began the chore of pushing my two ton Wannabago to church. After securing the FL behind our new home we walked back to “town” for Laura’s Sportster. Next came the true delight of casing the little church for a while before stepping inside to check the accommodations. It was a quaint little one-room place of worship with pews, communion table, podium, organ, and stained glass…the works. Very humble. Very nice. Sitting atop the last pew was a stack of blankets and pillows.

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It seemed we’d just crossed into the Twilight Zone. What a strange experience to have a real, bona fide, church as our home and, for a time, we were as two kids in a candy store. I stood at the pulpit and pretended to be a real preacher while Laura tickled the ivories of the silent, unplugged, organ. We admired the stained glass up close and wondered at everything the place had to offer. Although I’m unfamiliar with the intricacies of religion, Laura determined that this place was nondenominational. The experience was truly wonderful, in a weird sort of way. After our thorough exploration and the snapping of few photos, I opened a few windows to alleviate the stuffiness and we began to unload the motorcycles. When this was done I secured a single tarp over both bikes against the possibility of rain. Leaving the church’s bedding alone, our own mats and sleeping bags were set upon the floor. As the change into pajamas (T-shirt and thermal underwear) began, we found ourselves momentarily naked inside this holiest of places. Definitely a first for me.

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Mornings tend to start slowly around my camp, but today we were down at the shop by 9:30. The battery now read topped-off and fine. The walk between church and town was already becoming a familiar routine and it was not long before the battery was reinstalled and ready for business. I hit the button. Ever so slowly the motor began to crank. Then…smoke came to barreling from the engine compartment. Betsy was on fire! It was the starter, and even after I’d released the button the damn thing simply would not disengage itself from the battery! I screamed at Laura to  go for the bag of tools in the far saddlebag while I pulled the other to expose the battery terminals and hopefully disconnect the power in time. This process seemed excruciatingly slow. But gradually the smoke began to subside of its own accord before finally dissipating altogether. As I inched a nose closer, the stench of burnt wiring assaulted my senses. This starter was fried. I’d bought that damn thing brand 84 June ‘14 Cycle Source new in North Carolina only three months earlier. 1988 was a transitional or, “bastard”, year for Harleys. Although the bike sports a five-speed transmission and multi disk Japanese clutch (still in use today) it uses the old tapered main-shaft with woodruff key and a Hitachi starter. In other words, it’s part Shovelhead. Although the Hitachi starter is extremely easy to remove, it’s not always so easy to get these days. And out here in the middle of nowhere the chances seemed pretty bleak.

 

As I began the process of pulling the starter it was found that the little mounting bracket at its rear side was broken. Well, the bike was 24 years old. I guess that’s how long they last. I wondered if the busted part had anything to do with the starter’s premature death. The bracket could of course be welded and I began to wonder if Jason was any good with a torch. Next, I pulled the screws that held the starter together and gutted the thing. I’d never seen one so badly melted inside. Having been down this road 100 times before, I was not upset. Breakdowns are an inevitable part of road life and experience had shown that things always seem to work themselves out. The proper attitude is to simply relax, trust whatever God it is that looks out for those who drift, take the appropriate action, be patient, and see what happens next. I handed the fried starter to Laura before we mounted the Sportster and rode off to town. Continued Next Month!!!

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